


The Secrets Regarding Dick Simmons

by AnnieGrimmons101



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Swearing, Tickle Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieGrimmons101/pseuds/AnnieGrimmons101





	1. Chapter 1

Not even a week had passed since Dexter Grif, Dick Simmons, Lavernius Tucker, and Michael J. Caboose had been named captains by the leader of a rebel army. Her name was Vanessa Kimball. They had just argued over who was in charge of them, and their lieutenants, Bitters, Palomo, Jensen, and Smith, all voted for Tucker. Grif could really care less. Being in charge was hard work, if Rat’s Nest had taught him anything. Damn, that was a long time ago. Not a whole lot changed about him over that time, but everyone else seemed to have done some crazy character development. Especially Tucker. He had started taking things seriously, and acting responsible, and all that jazz. Grif was honestly still just trying to figure out his best friend.   
He and Simmons shared a bed in their small room. It was just easier that way, and it made enough room for Simmons to have a desk, which he needed because he was practically carrying the whole army. Simmons was insistent that Grif not touch him though, and at this point it was just silly. Their bed was queen-sized; there wasn’t enough space to not touch each other, and they usually woke up against each other anyway just because they moved in their sleep.   
That night, Grif decided something important, and it started with “fuck this stupid shit”. He sidled closer to Simmons under the covers, gently and slowly slid his arms around his middle, and pressed a soft little kiss to his neck. Simmons froze up, and said nothing to him. Grif took that as disbelief or something self-conscious like that, and pulled Simmons a little closer. He rubbed Simmons’s warm stomach with his thumbs, and Simmons twitched away.  
“Oh my god,” Grif whispered. “You’re ticklish.”  
Simmons was reduced to a fit of giggles within a few seconds, and Grif ignored his tiny gasps for him to stop, because Simmons’s smile was too bright to let go. Grif finally gave his friend a chance to catch his breath, propped himself over Simmons, and smoothed his bright red hair out of his face for him. He had never seen Simmons this openly happy. He looked so… kissable. He found Simmons’s left hand beneath the blanket -- the hand that was prosthetic, the one he hated -- and gently laced his fingers into it.   
At Simmons’s slight deer-in-the-headlights look, Grif just plain couldn’t help himself. He gave Simmons a soft little peck on the lips, and Simmons stared at him in flustered confusion. Not wanting to deal with describing what exactly he was going for, Grif slid back down into bed next to him, and told him to go to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Kissing Simmons was a big mistake, for a number of reasons. The first and most immediate reason was that Simmons didn’t talk to him most of the next day. The second, reasonably-sized reason was that now Grif had realized he wanted Simmons more permanently, and it was the only thing he could think about all day.   
Kimball called a meeting. Everyone congregated in the center of the base camp, with the captains and lieutenants at the front. Felix was off to the far side, his head tilted down, a knife in his fingers. He looked to be... sulking.   
“Alright. Here’s the deal. Last night our patrol spotted a strange capsule, which could either be an alien artefact, or a present from the Feds. Either way, we need a squad to get out there, figure out what it is and where it’s from, and then if it’s not dangerous, bring it back here. Captain Simmons has already volunteered to go.”  
“Well, if Simmons is going, I’m going,” Grif decided immediately.   
Matthews then of course offered as well, and Simmons’s lieutenant, Jensen.   
Simmons and Grif had a warthog to themselves, while Jensen and Matthews rode in another one. Simmons didn’t say a single word the whole first half of the drive, despite Grif’s prompts. And Grif was the one driving. Eventually, Grif had enough of the silent treatment.  
“You’re not mad at me for kissing you, right?”  
That got his attention. “What? No. That was…”  
“If something’s bothering you --”  
“I know what it is. The capsule. Or at least, I’ve got a good idea of what it is.”  
“Okay… what is it, then?”  
Simmons went quiet again, and fidgeted uncomfortably. Grif decided if Simmons knew what it was, then he might as well just leave him alone about it. They only had a little farther to go before he would see what it was for himself, anyway, so… eh, what did it matter?   
Apparently it did matter, because Simmons started freaking out once they actually came up on the thing. Grif had to pull over, and he barely caught a glimpse of Matthews and Jensen doing the same thing.   
“Simmons. Calm down.”  
Grif eased off his friend’s helmet and tore away his own, making sure Simmons had personal space, but also that he could see he wasn’t alone. He messaged Matthews and Jensen to carry on and wait by the pod so they wouldn’t smother Simmons in a blind panic.   
“I’m scared.”  
Grif took that as his cue to hug Simmons tight. “Just relax. Everything’s fine.”  
“Th-the pod, it --”  
“Shush.” Grif maneuvered them into a better position in the warthog so they could sit more comfortably. “Alright, Sims. The capsule. Why’s it scaring you?”  
“I don’t know what’s in it.”  
“Well… maybe there’s nothing in it. Maybe it’s just an empty pod. Maybe someone else got there first.”  
“Yeah, but… Dex, you can’t even understand --”  
“I don’t pretend to be able to, Sims. But you know me. I go with the flow. Whatever’s in the pod, we’ll deal with it, alright?”  
Simmons nodded, and hid his face as he tried to calm down. Grif muttered some meaningless shit into his soft red hair to help, and once Simmons was ready to go again, Grif had exhausted pretty much his whole vocabulary. It didn’t matter, though. He kept one hand on the wheel, and one hand laced with Simmons’s on the seat, just to keep him calm while they pulled up. Grif felt the hand tighten exponentially the closer they got to the pod, and he didn’t let go right away when he stopped the jeep.   
Neither Matthews nor Jensen said a word about their little pit stop, nor about how shaky Simmons was as he approached the pod. It was roughly seven feet long and four feet wide, and Grif couldn’t help but think it was one of those launch pods that jettisoned Spartans onto planets from orbit. Simmons was doing something with the screen at the foot of the capsule, his gloves off. The holographic keyboard was slightly glitchy, but it seemed to be to unlock some sort of puzzle, which Sims was doing at a breakneck pace. It also seemed to be reading his fingerprints, which was why he was using his organic hand.  
A screen with words popped up, and Grif randomly noticed it was in French, and Simmons was reading it without a problem. He tapped on a few icons, and gave a shaky breath of relief. “It’s safe to bring back to base,” he announced, then looked around him at the terrain. “We’ll have to tow it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Kimball wanted an immediate update on what the pod was, which meant she escorted herself to where Simmons was trying to convince himself to open it. Tucker and Grif were already there with him, and once Kimball arrived, Grif noticed Felix hovering across the way. Not close enough to eavesdrop, just enough to see what they were up to.  
“So? Anything to report, captains?”  
Simmons didn’t respond, so Grif did it for him. “Not yet, we’re still in the process of opening it.”  
It was pretty obvious Simmons could be opening the pod at any time. The holographic screen in front of his face had a big circle with one last simple puzzle, and a single phrase hovered over it. Ferme a clef. That meant “locked” in French. (Grif had asked.) Kimball hovered in confusion and disappointment as Simmons stared helplessly at the puzzle. It was similar to all the others he had blazed through earlier; he was scared shitless.   
“Captain Simmons.” Sims jerked his head over to look at her. “Can you open the capsule?”  
He sighed quietly, and stared down the lock. “Yes,” he decided through gritted teeth. He made his bare fingers -- of his right hand, Grif noted -- swirl the puzzle into its correct shape, and then ferme a clef changed into deverrouille. Context clues told Grif that probably meant “unlocked”. He thrust the palm of his hand at the circle, squeezed his other hand into a determined fist, and twisted the circle exactly ninety degrees to the right. The pod made an unsealing noise, and the top flipped up slowly, revealing a rack of bizarre but awesome weapons. Grif was the first to peer inside, and his breath caught in his throat at the same second Simmons’s did.  
“That’s mark twelve,” breathed Simmons in awe. Tucker and Kimball gathered around too, and Grif had an inexplicable urge to touch the pure white armor laid out neatly inside the pod. He didn’t know anything about “mark twelve”, but damn was that helmet pretty. Tucker tried to reach in and grab it, but Kimball slapped his hand away.   
No one knew what to do or say for a while, during which time Simmons slipped his gauntlets back on, and then he moved towards the weapon rack. His fingers hovered almost reverently over two gold sword handles. Simmons lifted them out of their clasps, and cradled them in his palms. He stepped out of the way of everyone, into the more open area behind Tucker and Kimball, and thumbed them on.   
Long gold blades hummed out of their handles, and Grif gaped at them. They were broadswords, made of plasma like Tucker’s, and they had four diamond-shaped holes along the middle of the blades. Simmons slashed at the air experimentally, and something about the way his body moved told Grif something very important:  
Simmons knew his way around this shit.  
He held up the swords at eye level, and turned them back and forth to inspect them. He flicked his wrists, twirling the swords around and thumbing them off at the same time. He only then realized everyone was staring at him, and hovered in awkward embarrassment until Grif pulled him back over to the pod. Grif dismissed Kimball and Tucker by saying they would log everything in the capsule, which was really just a polite way of telling them both to fuck off.   
This stuff was really cool, and as soon as both of their leader-figures were gone, he and Sims totally fangirled over their new tech.   
“Oh my god, look, it’s like a tiny Grifshot!” Grif hefted the pistol he had pulled off the rack, and aimed its little blade at nothing in particular. He was practically bouncing with excitement at finding something that resembled his old Meta souvenir.  
“It’s for close-combat fighting,” Simmons offered wisely. “It’s really just a short bayonet on the end of a pistol, but it works pretty well. Especially for those who aren’t trained in much combat.” He moved closer, and Grif thought Simmons was going to take his new toy away, but Simmons instead helped Grif perfect his posture with one hand, and hold the handgun-knife hybrid correctly with the other. “And yes, it is similar to the Brute Shot,” he added, “but it’s not a grenade launcher, so you have to hold it like a pistol.”   
Grif hyperfocused on Simmons’s hand holding his waist from behind, and his gentle repositioning of Grif’s fingers for him.   
“Now, it has a fair bit more kick than a standard pistol, so make sure you account for that.”  
Grif tensed his arm up as much as he could, and Simmons slinked backwards away from him.   
“Okay, hit that stupid smiley face Caboose drew over there.”  
He was referring to when the regulation blue captain got into a stash of spray-paint, and decided since Tucker didn’t smile enough anymore, he would draw him a smile on the wall so he would remember to, and thoughtfully colored it a bright aqua. It was on the far side of their camp. “I don’t think that’s in range for a pistol, Sims. A sniper, maybe.”  
“Just shoot at it.”  
Grif did. He aimed as carefully as he could, purposefully messing up his posture a couple times so Simmons would stay close enough behind to correct it for him, straightened his right arm, and fired. He sometimes used his left hand and sometimes used his right; Grif was a righty, Simmons was a lefty, and Grif had Simmons’s original left hand, simple as that. Of course, Simmons having a robotic left arm meant he could still write left, but he had always held his weapons with his right hand.   
Now Caboose’s smiley had a third eye just to the right of the other two.  
“Wow,” Grif mumbled, looking down at his new Mini-Grifshot. “That’s some crazy range.” Simmons was climbing inside the pod, and Grif leaned up against the edge of it next to him. “Whatcha doin’?”  
“Looking to see if this capsule is outfitted with mark nine armor. They usually are; it’s standard.”  
“Uh huh,” Grif drew out, glancing inside the pod. Simmons seemed to find what he was looking for encased in a metallic box, as well as a cloth bag. He dropped the box out the side, and inspected the bag while sitting on the edge of the capsule, legs dangling inside it.   
Grif lifted the lid of the box, and found another set of white armor, though clearly not as advanced as the mark twelve. He slid out a cool-looking helmet, and popped off his own to try it on. He glanced up at Simmons through the advanced HUD, and saw his friend sorting out colorful bodysuits. No black ones. Grif spied with his little eye one that was a lovely shade of yellow-orange, and snatched it. Simmons glanced up to rebuke him, but didn’t.  
“I’m gonna try this shit on,” Grif decided. “I’ll be right back.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Grif got back to the pod all decked-out in his white mark nine armor and orange bodysuit (he looked awesome), Sims was gone, and Kimball, Tucker, Caboose, and Felix, as well as Jensen, were there. They all turned to see him walking up, and he strutted his stuff as he came to rest beside Kimball.  
“No fair,” Tucker complained. “Wait, that’s a different helmet. Where’d you get that one?”  
As if on cue, someone with mark twelve white armor and a maroon bodysuit marched up with two golden energy swords strapped to his thighs, and a standard battle rifle in his arms. Grif propped his fists on his hips as he looked Simmons over.   
Tucker spoke first. “You look like a goddamn slice of red velvet cake.”  
Simmons glanced down at himself, and shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Dammit, he’s right!”  
“Hey,” Grif interrupted, “I’m always a slut for cake.” Then he brushed off the whole exchange, moving back to the weapon rack where he had left his tiny Grifshot. His mark nine armor had a slot to clip weapons to it on the thighs, so he twirled his pistol around and holstered it. He then inspected the rack for another weapon he might want, but didn’t see anything he had to have straight off the bat.   
“So I see you’ve been enjoying our new tech,” accused Kimball at long last.   
Grif realized something when Simmons went quiet instead of sucking up to her. “Hey, pretty sure Sims is entitled to his own shit.” Simmons jerked his head over to him in terror, but it was far too late. Tucker had to know all the details about everything, and especially about those fancy energy swords. Grif grinned at Sims from behind his helmet, waiting for the moment when Kimball got so annoyed by Tucker that she just scolded them and left. It came pretty soon.  
“I want everything in that pod catalogued before dawn,” she demanded, and didn’t wait for Simmons’s squeaky little “yes ma’am” before booking it out of there with Felix and Jensen in tow. Caboose looked torn between Tucker and Kimball, glancing back and forth helplessly. Tucker waved him on.  
“Thanks for the save,” Grif muttered, and they did their little bro handshake-hug.   
“No problem, dude,” replied Tucker, popping off his helmet to reveal his huge grin. “Seriously though, this is Simmons’s?!” He patted along Grif’s fancy white armor in awe, and then his face turned sly. “Aha, you’re sharing clothes.”  
“Shut up,” Grif grumbled. “Oh, but check it. Grifshot 2.0!’ 

Tucker didn’t learn a whole lot about Simmons, or why he had a whole seven-foot-by-four-foot pod of fancy tech he had never used before. Grif knew all he had to do to get answers was prompt the response he wanted, but he didn’t quite know what to ask, so they laid quietly in their bed while Simmons finished logging the last of the gear -- all from memory.   
Once Simmons thumbed off his datapad and climbed out of bed to set it in its usual place on the center of his desk, Grif sat up and waited for him to return. He didn’t. He reached into his maroon duffle and tugged out his shower clothes. (Because yes, Simmons wore clothes in the shower.)   
Usually Grif didn’t watch while Simmons changed (because then he wouldn’t do it), but this time he kept his gaze on the graceful curve of Simmons’s back, his long slender legs, his sharp cheekbones, his bright red hair he was finally letting down from its tight ponytail. Simmons turned to glare at him, but all Grif saw was his captivating seaweed-green eyes, and his cute little freckles that adorned his nose and cheeks. His pretty peach lips were drawn into a thin line, his eyes narrowed, his dark eyebrows drawn together.  
“You’re so cute when you’re angry,” Grif muttered, mostly to himself.  
Simmons’s glare didn’t go away, but his whole face immediately blossomed with pink like flowers on a spring day. Grif had to smile at how easy it was to make Simmons blush.   
“Je veux juste me doucher, pourquoi est-ce trop demander?” Simmons complained, shoving his shirt back into his duffel. Grif blinked. Simmons was fluent in French.   
“Wait, say something else in French.”  
“Non, baise!” Simmons snapped as he left their room.


	5. Chapter 5

Tucker couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been able to since that stupid ex-freelancer decided to tell Freckles to shake. He left his room to pace the camp like he had done most every night so far, and came upon a weird sight as he neared the locked capsule. Or at least, he had thought Simmons had locked it back up for the night. Simmons appeared to have unlocked it again, and was sitting inside it with a book, illuminated only by the glow of the nearby buildings.   
Better than pacing around in circles all night thinking. He strolled up to Simmons and leaned backwards against the pod, his elbows propped behind him.   
“Qu'est-ce que tu veux?”  
Tucker blinked and turned his head to glance at Simmons’s annoyed face. “Uhh, I only took one year of French, and I don’t remember any of it, so…”   
“Dites à Grif de se baiser lui-même.”  
“What about Grif now?”  
“Il est un imbécile.”  
“What? Oh. I think I got the message. Imbecile.”  
“Oui.”   
“You just gonna talk in French now so no one understands you?”  
“Jensen parle un peu de français.”  
“Classic Simmons. Only talk to people you’re not mad at.”  
“Je ne suis pas en colère contre toi, Tucker, je suis juste de mauvaise humeur en ce moment.”  
Tucker sighed and ruffled his dreads. He needed to dye them again, because the royal blue was looking pretty sad now. “Okay, I don’t understand what you just said. How many languages do you speak?” he wondered, trying for a more normal conversation.   
“Français, allemand, Japonais, un peu de portugais, et un peu de suédois.”  
“Okay, I understood French, Japanese, Portuguese, and… Swedish?”  
“Oui. Et l’allemand.”  
“Yeah, I don’t know what that one is. Hints?”  
Simmons narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat, then set aside his book, which also appeared to be in French. “Vielleicht werde ich nur Kimball bitten, stattdessen ein Zimmer mit dir zu teilen,” Simmons said with a shrug.  
“Oh,” Tucker realized with a smirk. “German.”  
“Ja.”  
“What was that about Kimball?”  
“Nichts.”  
That definitely meant “nothing”. “Wanna talk about it?”  
Simmons did his little flutter with his hands, which usually meant he was about to rant. At least this time it would be in German. “Grif ist ein Arschloch und er wird nicht aufhören zu bekommen, um in meine Hose zu bekommen, und ich bin wirklich müde zu haben, ein Bett mit ihm in der Nacht zu teilen. Ich würde viel lieber einen mit jemandem teilen, der nicht denke, dass ich irgendwie irgendwie prüde bin.”  
Tucker sighed. “I know you’re just ranting, and I know at least half of that was about Grif, but really, no one’s making you put up with him. Even I can’t handle him most of the time. I’m just the slightest bit cleaner than he is.”  
“Wo soll ich schlafen? Kein anderer wird ein Bett mit mir teilen, und ich brauche einen Schreibtisch, wenn ich Berichte schreiben werde.” Simmons sounded pained, resigned, and desperate all at one time.   
“Simmons.”  
They met each other’s eyes.  
“Speak a language I understand.”  
“Dōshite? Anata wa tada hokanohito to heya o kyōyū suru yō ni itte iru dake de, watashi ga hontōni nozomu no wa beddo to tsukuedesuga, dare mo kyōyū shinainode dareka to heya o kyōyū suru hitsuyō ga arimasu.”  
Tucker sighed again. “I don’t speak Japanese, Simmons.”  
“Watashi wa kon'ya rikai shitakunai kamo shiremasenga, Tucker.”  
“If you don’t want to deal with Grif, you can sleep in my room tonight. I can’t sleep, anyway.”  
“Du behöver inte göra det. Jag kommer inte att få någon sömn ikväll.”  
Tucker was tired of this language game. He climbed inside the pod and settled next to Simmons, trying to ignore the fact that Simmons had left his room in just boxers. Grif must have really pissed Simmons off to get him to leave in the middle of the night with no pants on. Tucker slung an arm behind Simmons and turned an idea over in his mind.  
“Grif’s coming on to you, isn’t he?”  
“...yeah.”  
Tucker’s brain had all-but perfected his idea, but he stalled a little longer so it could work out the kinks. “You guys share a bed and everything, right?”  
“Yep…”  
Idea minted, fresh off the metaphorical printing press. “Wanna be my pretend boyfriend so you have an excuse to leave?” Tucker held his hands away to emphasize the ‘fake’ part. “No freaky shit, no backhanded flirting, I swear.”  
Simmons puffed his lower lip out while he considered the idea. Tucker already knew he had succeeded just because Simmons was thinking about it. He waited with a patient smirk for Simmons to add his own terms to the deal. “Don’t tell people you fuck me,” he warned, glaring straight into his eyes.   
“Okay. So what if -- what if -- we actually do fuck? Confidential?”  
“Yes.”  
Tucker nodded, then crossed his heart with only a taste of sarcasm in the motion. Then he glanced at Simmons with a whole new light in his eyes, which Simmons noticed immediately. “Now come on, babe, it’s the middle of the night. Let’s go to bed.”  
Tucker wrapped himself around Simmons once they were in his bed, and smiled to himself at how easy it was to get the hottest person in the rebel army to cuddle with him. Of course, he would never break Simmons’s trust that this was merely a fake relationship, but if he was being completely honest with himself, he was going to have no trouble flirting with him throughout the extent of this… whatever-it-was.   
He knew exactly what he was going to say first, and it was going to be really offhanded and out of context, right in front of Kimball.   
And Grif. Tucker was definitely going to lay claim on Simmons in front of Grif.


	6. Chapter 6

Kimball called a meeting for the four captains early the next morning, and Simmons stood to Tucker’s side instead of Grif’s, leaving him to stand next to Caboose. Tucker almost laughed at Grif, but he contained himself for that perfect moment. Kimball didn’t notice the switch-up of their usual standing formation, and simply started with the meeting.   
Twenty minutes in, Tucker saw his chance. Kimball was pairing them up for a scouting mission, and paused for a second to wait for Grif to claim Simmons, since he always did. This time, Tucker beat him to the punch. He donned his fuckboy voice, and stared straight at Simmons’s visor while he said it. “Well, I’m not letting Simmons outta my sight, if you catch my drift.”  
“Excuse me?” Grif demanded. Tucker had already planned this out, and ignored him. He kept staring straight at Simmons.  
“Me and Sims are scouting together,” he repeated, barely glancing at Kimball to let her know he was talking to her. Grif was bouncing on the balls of his feet angrily.  
“Is there a problem here?”  
Tucker glanced around. “Not one that I can see. Unless Grif’s got a complaint,” he offered, glaring him down pointedly. Since Grif just glared back, Tucker considered himself victorious. He looked back at Kimball. “That gonna work?”  
She glanced back and forth between them. Grif hadn’t stopped glaring. “...yes. Tucker, you and Simmons will cover the northern part of our turf.” She still looked hesitant about not pairing Grif and Simmons with one another. “Caboose, you’re paired with Smith.”   
“Yay!”  
“And then Palomo and Bitters will be paired up, and… I suppose Grif and Jensen.”  
No one said anything for a few seconds, and Tucker smirked behind his helmet. He couldn’t wait for Grif to find him later and yell at him. He also couldn’t wait for Simmons to get a little horny and let Tucker rub up against him like a tomcat, but that he would pretty much have to be patient for. He needed to build up enough of a real relationship within the fake one first.   
“Sounds good to me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Grif wasn’t trying to be mean to Jensen. She just reminded him of Simmons a little bit, was all, and right now he could see himself making that maroon idiot cry. He grumbled to himself and turned on the instant messaging in his HUD.   
GRIF: wtf sims  
SIMS: what  
GRIF: you know  
SIMS: tucker asked me to date him  
GRIF: and you said yes????  
SIMS: was i not supposed to  
GRIF: well i mustve been mistaken but i thought we had a thing  
SIMS: first you break the no touch rule and then you kiss me for no reason and then you stare at me when im trying to change clothes and then you get mad at me for leaving??? Maybe i needed someone who wasnt a creepy fatass  
Okay, maybe that was sort of a good point. But still, Tucker? The number one most suggestive person in the rebel army? What did Sims see in him?


	8. Chapter 8

“So, I know we’re only fake-dating, but I can’t say we’re not doing anything together, so… this is definitely our first date.”  
Both Tucker and Simmons were seated on a cliff at the far north of the rebel’s turf, overlooking the no-man’s-land they were watching. Simmons had already lamented about not being able to use the fancy mark twelve armor except for in battle, because then it could keep track of everything for him. As it was, they weren’t doing much.  
Tucker crept his hand over to rest it on Simmons’s. He received a slight deer-in-the headlights look, and he reveled in his shining green eyes for a moment, before explaining himself. Or rather, answering an unspoken question with a question. “ No holding hands?”  
“No, it’s… fine.”  
Tucker: 1, Universe: 0. “Say something in French again.”  
“Pourquoi?”  
Tucker shrugged, remembering that word meant “why” from that one French class forever ago. “Just like your accent, I guess.”  
“Vous voulez que je sois sale avec vous, n'est-ce pas?”  
Despite not understanding what was said, Tucker liked the look he got from Simmons’s pretty eyes. He smirked at him.  
“Parie que vous ne savez pas que j'ai une réputation pour la meilleure bouche à bord du Glacier.”  
Tucker liked that tone of voice on Simmons. His hooded eyes, his slight smirk. Tucker could eat Simmons’s pretty ass up right now. Actually, he would eat Simmons’s ass in the literal sense if he was allowed. He maneuvered their hands into a more conventional position, and slid a little closer. “I just wanna throw out there that I have no issues with this being slightly less than fake.”  
“Vous ne sauriez pas ce qui vous a frappé.”  
“I’m liking the tone I’m hearing, but I can’t really make out what you’re saying,” Tucker slid closer as he spoke. “Run that one by me again.”  
Simmons leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Take your armor off.”  
“Oh, hell yeah.”


	9. Chapter 9

Tucker groaned beneath Simmons’s hot, wet, glorious mouth, trying to hold on longer than a pubescent teen. He had been certain he would be balls-deep in Simmons’s tight little ass in this scenario, but as it was, he could deal with a blowjob. He’d had his fair share of blowjobs from pretty much every gender on the spectrum, but Simmons topped all of them. He knew how to use that long tongue, and he knew just how long to deepthroat him before pulling back off again.  
“Such a goddamn tease,” Tucker choked out.   
Simmons just smirked and licked a stripe up his length. His eyes hardened. “You keep insulting me, I might tie you up and leave you like this.”  
“Fuck you.”  
Tucker was rewarded with an animalistic growl. “You wish.” Simmons dropped all the way back down on him, and dug his robotic left fingers into his thigh. His right hand was caressing the soft hair over his pelvic bone. Tucker wanted to tell Dick to make up his goddamn mind, but he couldn’t make his voice work at the moment.   
Simmons pulled back off, and licked his swollen pink lips. His pretty eyes flashed. “Gonna cum for me, Lavernius?” He rested his mouth lightly over the head.   
“I think I’m gonna die.”  
Simmons looked almost thoughtful for a second. “Unlikely. Though I’ve been told I have that effect.”   
“Ohh, you gorgeous little shit.”  
Tucker spilled into Simmons’s mouth and nearly screamed when Simmons kept going, his cheeks puffing full of cum. He took it all in until Tucker stopped spraying, then spit over the edge of the cliff and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes maintained their flashy green as Tucker slowly came down from his high, and sat up. He reached forward to grab Simmons and finish off whatever level of boner he had hiding beneath that kevlar bodysuit, but Simmons was already reaching behind him. He tossed Tucker’s suit at him and tugged his gauntlets back on.  
“Dude.” Tucker was a lot of things, but a cheapskate was not one of them. He wasn’t about to let Simmons get away with sucking him off with no reimbursement. Simmons seemed to realize this once Tucker didn’t start getting dressed.   
He knew shit was up when Simmons wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Consider it rent.”  
“Come again?”  
“For letting me stay in your room.”  
“Whoa whoa whoa, we’re not doing that bullshit. You’re not staying in my room because you suck me off on patrol, alright, that’s not how we’re doing this. You’re staying in my room because Grif’s being a dick to you and we’re friends. We just happened to need an excuse in this scenario, and we just happened to decide to fuck on patrol because we got a little horny.”  
Simmons was biting his lip.  
“Let’s go back to the idea where we don’t fuck. You know what,” Tucker forced his bodysuit up onto his hips, “this never happened.” He put his suit and his armor on in record time, and helped up Simmons, who was still fitting on the back of his armor.   
They let the entire previous conversation dissolve, and then Tucker deemed it safe to speak.   
“So how are we gonna make this work?”  
Simmons’s bright red hair swished a little as he turned to look at him.   
“Do I hold you at night, do I not, do I flirt with you, do I not…?”  
The maroon soldier was thoughtful for a moment. “Just don’t kiss me.”  
“That’s it? Come on, I’m not playing games. I need a list of do’s and don’t’s. What did Grif do that made you want to leave?”  
A mention of Grif’s wrongdoings seemed to help. Simmons crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself tight. “Don’t touch me or kiss me without asking first. And don’t look at me when I’m changing clothes.”  
“That it?”  
“Don’t follow me into the goddamn shower,” Simmons whispered, shivering to himself. He seemed to be remembering a certain incident. “Just because I wear clothes in the shower doesn’t mean you can just stroll in and talk to me.”  
“Alright. You’re sure that’s everything?”  
“Everything I can think of right now.”  
“Let me know if there’s anything else,” insisted Tucker pointedly before sealing his helmet back on. “Let’s go back.”


	10. Chapter 10

Grif could not have been happier to get away from Jensen. Once their patrol was over, he bolted away from her and ended up back at the mongooses before she could even turn around. Of course, she was forgetful and couldn’t drive, so he would have to wait for her to arrive as well, but any millisecond without someone who acted like Sims was practically heaven.   
But goddammit, why did Simmons pick Tucker? A power play? Tucker was in charge of the group. Falling easily into that train of thought, he wondered why Simmons didn’t start spreading his legs for Felix. Maybe he did. Maybe he was banging everyone but Grif. Seriously though, he had thought a tickle fight wasn’t that big of a deal, it’s not like he groped him or pressured him into anything.   
Jensen and he drove back to camp, reported the silence of the southern border, and then Grif strolled out toward the open area where the weapons pod was, wanting his Mini Grifshot to dispel some tension, work off some stress.   
Tucker was clad in a cyan bodysuit and white mark nine armor, with Simmons hovering behind him clad in his mark twelves, and he seemed to be teaching Tucker how to use an advanced sniper rifle. Something in Grif boiled over as he watched Simmons showing Tucker how to efficiently reload the magazine, and he hovered on the edge of the open area. Tucker fired a shot at the smiley Caboose drew, and Simmons had him do it again. And again. He did it a fourth time, dropped out the empty magazine, and reloaded it the way he was taught.   
Simmons applauded him. Tucker was turning the sniper over in his hands and talking to Sims about something that seemed to interest the nerd. He bounced and extended those golden broadswords, flipping them around while he waited for Tucker to set aside his sniper rifle and extend his turquoise Sangheili energy sword.   
They shared a few mock blows, and then Grif’d had it. He stomped off for the longest shower this planet had ever seen.


	11. Chapter 11

“You need to improve your form, and you need fighting practice out-of-armor.”  
Tucker rolled his sore shoulder, and tried not to ask Simmons whose mattress they were doing the ‘out-of-armor fighting’ on. They had been slashing at each other for a good half hour, and had built up a small audience in the meantime. If Palomo owned pom-poms, he would have been waving them, even though he was hiding off to the side with all the others. Tucker clipped his sword to his hip, and tugged off his helmet. “Wanna teach me a thing or two? You seem to know your shit.”  
Simmons was inspecting his sword handles over next to the pod. “You didn’t seem to appreciate personal training when it was Wash.”  
“Well, I guess I have a real reason to learn to fight now. I mean, fighting a civil war. Gotta be ready.”  
Simmons looked so weird with the white and maroon. He didn’t seem like the same nerd as before. Tucker sauntered closer to the capsule full of forgotten tech, and glanced over at Simmons. This stuff turned Simmons into some sort of badass, and he quite frankly didn’t like it all that much. He liked Simmons the way he usually was; constantly tinkering, obsessively clean, irrevocably brown-nosed. Maybe this was just another side of Simmons he had kept hidden through all these years, but Tucker didn’t have to like it. He just had to deal with it.  
“If you’re serious about training, I’m usually up until about one. Here, type these coordinates into your datapad, it should bring up a compass-thing. If you want.”  
Tucker felt like scolding Simmons for staying up so late just to train, but also felt like it really wasn’t his business. Simmons could take care of himself for the most part, he reckoned, just needed to be reminded of things sometimes. He took down the coordinates and picked up his advanced sniper from where he had set it next to the pod. “Hey, let’s go eat lunch or something.”  
“Not hungry. There’s some stuff I gotta do, anyway. You go on.”  
“Sure you don’t want company?”  
“No, I’m… personal stuff.”  
“Alright.”


	12. Chapter 12

Special Agent Richard A. Simmons leaned back inside the capsule in sweats and a grey sleeveless top. These weren’t designed as storage, but they were frequently used as such for convenience of transporting things. Simmons touched the panel on the side of the interior wall, and the lid lowered back down, encasing him in complete darkness for a moment.   
A holographic sheen appeared over his body, colored a soft dark green, and Simmons reached up and touched the settings icon. Everything was in perfect working order. He closed his eyes and waited for the sharp pain at the back of his neck.

Captain Lavernius D. Tucker. Male. Age: 28. Height: 6’0”. Natural hair color: black. Natural eye color: brown. Ethnicity: African-American. Distinguishing marks: sleeve tattoos. Current affiliation: New Republic of Chorus. Previous affiliation(s): UNSC; Charon Industries, Project Freelancer.   
[see juvenile detention record] [other]  
Captain Dexter K. Grif. Male. Age: 29. Height: 5’11”. Natural hair color: black. Natural eye color: blue. Ethnicity: Hawaiian/caucasian. Distinguishing marks: dolphin tattoos. Current affiliation: New Republic of Chorus. Previous affiliation(s): UNSC; Charon Industries, Project Freelancer.   
[see records for Kaikaina M. Grif] [other]  
Captain Michael J. Caboose. Male. Age: 31. Height: 6’5”. Natural hair color: brown. Natural eye color: green-blue. Ethnicity: caucasian. Distinguishing marks: missing toe on left foot. Current affiliation: New Republic of Chorus. Previous affiliation(s): UNSC; Charon Industries, Project Freelancer.   
[see psychotherapy record] [other]  
Vanessa M. Kimball. Female. Age: 35. Height: 5’4”. Natural hair color: dark brown. Natural eye color: black. Ethnicity: latina/caucasian. Distinguishing marks: none. Current affiliation: New Republic of Chorus. Previous affiliation(s): none.   
[other]  
They all checked out, not that Simmons had expected them not to, but he could never be too careful, especially with people he was close to. He was about to get rid of the dark green blips covering his vision and move on with the rest of his day, but a certain someone rounded the corner.  
Isaac Gates. Alias: Felix. Male. Age: 39. Height: 5’8”. Natural hair color: brown. Natural eye color: dark hazel. Ethnicity: caucasian. Distinguishing marks: tongue piercing, plugs. Current affiliation: New Republic of Chorus. Previous affiliation(s): Samuel Ortez, Mason Wu, UNSC; Charon Industries.   
[see juvenile detention record] [see dishonorable discharge record] [see known mercenary activity] [other]  
Usually Simmons wouldn’t delve so deep into other people’s personal information, but he kept scrolling through Felix’s file anyway. He turned his head so he wasn’t staring like a creep, and read through Felix’s extended rep. sheet. He even found all his previous employers, most of which led back to Charon Industries somehow. He didn’t have anything on Charon Industries that he didn’t already know, so he went back to information about Felix.   
After about twenty minutes of researching the previous life and schemes of Isaac Gates, Simmons came across Felix porn dating all the way back to when he was twenty-three, up until… holy shit, last week? Simmons watched the first bit of the latest one, and he honestly couldn’t say anything hateful towards it. Felix may be thirty-nine years old, but damn, he could make a video. Not really Simmons’s type, though. Maybe Tucker would like it.  
Wait…   
Simmons looked back at Tucker, who was fake-grinning while talking to Caboose. The green blip showed he’d already read the file, but allowed him to reopen it to the [other] section.   
[see browser history]  
Checkmate, Lavernius.


	13. Chapter 13

Tucker hadn’t spoken to Simmons ever since he reportedly got into the pod after emptying it, so he dropped his tray of dinner next to his pretend boyfriend. Simmons was staring off into space, not eating the food in front of him. He smiled a little to himself, and then started chuckling.  
“Dude.”  
Simmons jerked back to reality, but the damage was done; his cheeks were permanently a soft pink.   
“Are you good?”  
“What, yeah.” Simmons’s voice was squeaky and sheepish, and he immediately started putting food in his mouth. Tucker decided to change the subject for him.  
“Why don’t you ever wear your hair down?”  
“Gets in the way,” shrugged Simmons, and kept eating.   
“So ah, what were you thinking about?”  
“Huh?” He seemed genuinely confused for a moment. “Oh… promise not to mention it to anyone.”  
Tucker nodded on instinct, and then Simmons lifted Tucker’s hand to the back of his neck, which was hidden by his hair. Tucker felt along Simmons’s soft skin, looking for what… oh. He touched the tender flesh that had been practically welded over a hard bit in his neck. He actually saw the scar, and his breath caught in his throat.  
It was the same scar Wash had on his neck, just fresher.  
Simmons had an AI.  
“How long…?”  
“Couple hours. Most pods are outfitted with one. I happened to luck out and not get a violent one.”  
“If Wash finds out--”  
“Wash isn’t going to find out,” reassured Simmons with a pointed glare. “Right?”  
Tucker had no choice but to nod, and carefully caressed the fresh scar on his neck. “You’re okay though, right?”  
For some reason, Simmons avoided the question with a small, sly grin. “I’ve got something to show you tonight, if you’re interested.”


	14. Chapter 14

Tucker was worried after dinner, because he had stuff to take care of before he could get back to his room. When he finally managed to arrive, he was met with a very tempting sight. Simmons had let his hair down, his skin was still damp from a recent shower, and he was wearing only a pair of loose boxers and a tight tank top. He was slouched against the pillows, a datapad balanced on his slender thighs. Tucker could eat him up right now, but even if he was going to do that, he’d still have to get his armor off first. He started unclipping the plates, and then once he was down to his average black bodysuit, he debated actually changing out of it. It was a hassle to get on and off, even for someone as flexible as him.   
“Might wanna change into something more comfortable.”  
Why did that shoot heat through him? Simmons said it casually. Maybe he was just still in disbelief that the hottest person in the rebel army was laying in his bed in his underwear. Tucker peeled off his suit and fished through the pile of clothes beneath his bed for some sweatpants, tugging on the first ones he found.   
Simmons brushed shoulders with him as he turned the datapad so they could both see it, and Tucker draped an arm behind his pretend boyfriend as he waited for the datapad to load whatever it was Simmons wanted him to watch.  
He wasn’t expecting Felix porn videos, and he definitely wasn’t expecting to see Simmons trying not to laugh at it.  
“Are you okay?”  
Simmons almost choked as he tried to hold in his laughter. “I could ruin his whole career with this shit.” To be fair, he really could, and the quality on that thing was terrible. “These go back for over a decade,” he managed through silent giggles, and flipped forward to find the latest one. “This one was last Tuesday.”  
“What?” Tucker whisper-screamed, and stared at the video as he watched Felix play with knives in bed. He frankly wasn’t surprised Felix would try that… he realized he was rubbing his palm over his sweats. “Is it gonna be weird if I--”  
“I already know what you taste like, Tucker. No complaints.”


	15. Chapter 15

Tucker woke up at roughly two in the morning to an empty bed. He sighed, changed clothes into something less sticky, and grabbed his sword and his datapad for the coordinates. He walked out of camp and followed the arrow on his datapad to a remote little cluster of trees within the New Republic’s territory. Simmons was in the middle of them, standing in the center of a metal circle on the ground.   
“Run it again,” he insisted to no one. A six-inch-tall dark green apparition appeared next to his head.   
“You can’t beat her,” said the small green person with a bubbly and feminine voice.   
“Yeah, well, I can try. Run it again.”  
The green AI buzzed a sigh, and another figure appeared. Tucker almost drooled over the holographic girl. Her hair was curly ebony and pulled up into a longish ponytail, her eyes were a stunning hazel, her arms and legs were toned and muscular, and she had on a pair of track pants and a sports bra.  
Simmons looked better. He had his soft red hair forced back into a tight ponytail, his green eyes glowed even greener with the light of his AI, his lean, skinny body was covered only by a tank top and tight sport leggings, and his hands were wrapped in cloths. Tucker honestly wanted to touch Simmons in every way possible, but he held himself back to watch the fight.  
It lasted about ten tense seconds, and Simmons got his ass kicked. Though in all fairness, that girl was in peak physical condition, and she was at least three inches taller than Sims. She disappeared into shreds of computer code, and Simmons dragged himself to his feet angrily. His green AI was staring at Tucker, and Simmons turned slowly, then waved him over.   
“This is Lambda,” Simmons introduced, fiddling with his hand wraps.  
“Simmons calls me Speedy!” she added cheerfully, bouncing on her heels in the air. She wasn’t armored like Church was, instead having a slender human-like form, a sweet face, and short flouncy hair. Tucker found himself getting jealous; Lambda seemed fun.   
“So who was the chick?” Tucker asked casually, waving his hand at the large circle she had appeared from.   
“That was, ah, Agent Argentina. She’s…”   
“She’s Simmons’s ex-girlfriend!” Lambda supplied helpfully, beaming bright. Simmons shot her an embarrassed glare, and she dimmed slightly in shame.   
“Well damn,” Tucker offered, staring at where she’d disappeared to. “She’s a keeper.”  
Lambda giggled, a cute little buzzing noise, and a live-action image of Agent Argentina appeared within the ring, just a pace away from Tucker. Simmons was ignoring them totally, but Lambda seemed thrilled to spill information. “She’s amazing. She’s one of the best hand-to-hand fighters in the batch; she’s an expert in martial arts and gymnastics and all that stuff. And she’s hottttttt,” Lambda drew out, folding her hands and raising her shoulders in a mocking glance towards Simmons. “We call her ‘Tina’ for short.”  
“Oh good, because I could never say ‘Argentina’ with a straight face.”  
“Alright, Speedy, you’ve had your fun,” reminded Simmons through his blush. “Run training program five.” Lambda pouted for a second before obeying, turning off Argentina's hologram. Red circles rose out of the ring and started spinning. Simmons stepped back out of the ring, and nudged Tucker in. “All you have to do is hit them,” Simmons coached as he held Tucker’s datapad and energy sword for him. Tucker nodded and sprang up for a high one.  
He missed.  
“They move too fast.”  
Simmons sighed to himself. “Speedy, bring it down a notch?”  
The green AI nodded, and the circles slowed slightly. Tucker went for a lower one, springing up and knocking it with a right hook. It turned bright green. “Oh,” he muttered, and jumped for another one.   
And another.

It was almost four in the morning when Tucker and Simmons stumbled into the shower. Tucker was dead tired and sweating like crazy, and while Simmons was just as tired, he wasn’t sweating, since he gave Grif his sweat glands so long ago. Tucker stripped off his soaked clothes and dropped them on the floor, practically falling against the wall of the shower stall. His legs didn’t want to hold him up anymore. Arms wrapped around him beneath his shoulders. Simmons flipped him so he had his arms around Simmons’s neck, and Simmons started gently washing his hair and back. Tucker barely registered the fact that his cheek was resting on fabric instead of bare shoulder, but he was too tired to mention it.  
Tucker must have drifted off, because Simmons was turning off the water and drying them off, wrapping Tucker in the towel. Simmons princess-carried him back to their room, and dressed him gently before laying him in bed and, after a moment, slipping in next to him. Simmons was warm curled up against his chest, and Tucker tiredly stroked his skin before totally blacking out.


End file.
